


Lash

by squintly



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bondage, Flogging, M/M, Medical Procedures, POV First Person, Self-Flagellation, Self-Inflicted Injury, Spanking, Stitching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 06:42:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7212032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squintly/pseuds/squintly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something pure about pain. No distractions. No doubts. In meditation my mind wanders, but when the cord lashes across my back it all goes away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lash

There's something pure about pain. No distractions. No doubts. In meditation my mind wanders, but when the cord lashes across my back it all goes away. For a split second I'm no-one. Just nerve impulses firing off like lightning.

 

I don't know how Hux found out.

 

He runs the looped length of wire through his hands, examining it with cold mechanical detachment, like it's a malfunctioning tool or an archaeological curiosity. Doesn't even look up when I enter. The red hum of my lightsaber catches his attention well enough.

 

"Get out of my room."

 

His blue ice-chip eyes narrow and his lip curls before he turns his attention back to the cord. "Don't make threats you can't carry out. It's childish."

 

My blade comes up until the glow shimmers over his pasty skin. He glances at me again. Anybody else would be afraid.

 

"Get. Out."

 

His eyes flicker over my mask. After a moment, he raises his hand, turning his wrist so the bulk of the looped wire hangs over the lightsaber. Then he lets go. Metal and rubber hiss and the pieces flop to the floor, severed ends glowing dull copper orange.

 

"One day," Hux says as he turns to leave, "you'll learn to put away your toys."

 

I hid it. The panel on the wall hangs open. Nothing else is disturbed. He knew exactly where to look.

 

I'm the one who's supposed to read minds.

 

When he's gone, I swing the saber hard, slicing the panel door and a good portion of the wall. The sweet smell of burning metal, the resistance as the lightsaber cuts through, the red-hot stripes in the dark, bleed away some of the anger. Some.

 

The cord would have burnt it all. For a little while, at least.

 

Hux has no idea what he's done.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

Two days of destruction later, I find a box on my chair.

 

Black. Rectangular. Flat. Inexplicably wrapped in a red ribbon. I circle around, looking for exposed wires, strange smells, beeping. Nothing. Standing by the door I reach out with the Force and pull the ribbon loose. The lid slides free. Nothing happens.

 

Inside the box is a flogger.

 

The soft black leather strands slither through my fingers like thick hair. The braided handle fits well in my palm, a single red strip woven among the black like flecks of blood. Feels a little heavy, but nudging the braid apart reveals nothing but a solid metal cylinder.

 

No hidden razors. No needles. It is what it is. Somehow.

 

When the first blow hits my back I'm disappointed. The cord left stinging welts like laser burns, but this is distributed, a dozen flicks that barely register as pain. Swinging harder helps. I find a rhythm, my arm working more or less on its own, and slowly the knots in my chest ease.

 

Strike. Breathe. Strike. Breathe. Over and over, building slowly. Each time I hit the same spot it hurts a little more. I close my eyes, arch my back, brace myself with a curling hand.

 

Nothing matters. Failing. Fear. It's all just nothing, smoke vanishing before the whistling whip. The pain is everything and I can take it. I can take it all.

 

Eventually I stop. No reason why. Haven't left anything but bruises. My arm aches. That's never happened before. I sit on my knees, sweat dripping down the back of my neck, flogger drooping in my hand. It's like the moment after sex, when everything is warm and glowing and comfortable, only it lasts for what feels like hours.

 

I'm not disappointed anymore.

 

Before I fall asleep, easier than I have in years, I drift from the daze long enough to wonder why Hux – and it had to be Hux – would give me something like this. An apology, a power play, an attempt to get me under control. Maybe he just gets off on imagining me like this, red and ravaged and exhausted in the best possible way.

 

I don't care. He can whack off all he wants. This is worth it.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

The next day, his eyes follow me. He doesn't stumble over a single word of his briefing, obviously. Hux would never be so plebeian. Still, he glances my way more often than he should, and when I brush the outskirts of his mind I feel a kind of thin excitement. He wants to know so badly. Beneath my mask I smile.

 

When the other officers file out, I stay. Hux stares down at his data pad, flipping through reports and pretending not to notice. Leaning back in my chair, I have to suppress a groan. My back still aches.

 

The pain makes me generous, and after a long while I throw him a bone. "I got your present."

 

He looks up at me, but says nothing. He isn't as good at keeping a straight face as he thinks. His eyes are a fraction too wide to be disinterested and his grip on the data pad tightens.

 

"It's beautiful."

 

 Whatever he was expecting, that wasn't it. Color rises to his high cheeks. I've never seen him blush before. He stands, tugs his uniform straight, turns to leave.

 

"Where did you get it?" I ask as I rise and follow him out. "I can't imagine something like that comes standard issue."

 

"No-one will ask any questions, if that's what you're concerned about," Hux says, walking swiftly down the hallway.

 

"Oh, I'm not worried," I reply. "You would never risk your precious reputation. Which deepens the mystery. Is there some purveyor of contraband I should know about?"

 

"Of course not," Hux snips as if the very notion offends him. He's still blushing, a rosy glow that suits his face if not his scowl. "If you must know, I acquired it while on shore leave some time ago. No-one in the Order knows it exists."

 

"Some time ago?" I repeat, voice dripping with feigned astonishment. "General, are you a _collector_?"

 

The glow spreads to Hux's ears. Taunting him has never been so effective, and I can feel the dull rumble of his embarrassment. A tech rounds the corner ahead of us and stares at him with wide befuddled eyes before looking down and hurrying on her way.

 

"If you are going to do a thing," Hux says tersely when we are alone, glaring at me with narrowed eyes, "you may as well have the proper tools. I did you a kindness. Do not make me regret it."

 

"How did you know?" I ask him suddenly, stopping and turning to face him head-on. "Who told you?"

 

Hux stops too, regarding me for a moment as the blush begins to fade. "A little bird. You're not as good at keeping secrets as you think you are."

 

I let him walk away. I could pluck the answer out of his head if I wanted to. If he wants to play a game, we'll play a game.

 

I'm feeling generous.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

I've been on my knees for almost an hour. Sweat drips from my hair and I can barely breathe. It really is like sex, and I won't let myself come, spacing out the strikes so the pain fades in between. It still builds, but slowly.

 

My arm aches. My hand shakes. The weight of the flogger is perfect and too much at the same time. I swing and fall short, strands wrapping around my shoulder, accelerating as they curve. Where they strike stings a hundred times worse than it should and a second later I feel heat begin to drip down my back. I close my eyes and shudder and for a second it's everything I could ever want.

 

The cuts are in an awkward place, starting just within the reach of my fingers but ending well below. Looking at them in the mirror, I can already tell they won't heal right on their own. The bruised skin split too wide. Going to the medbay, they might ask questions.

 

It's an excuse. As far as excuses go, it's a good one.

 

Hux answers the door right away, looking up from his data pad only as it hisses open. His eyes widen when he sees me and he immediately steps back, ushering me inside.

 

I've never been in his personal quarters before, and they're not what I thought. Smaller than they could have been, no outward signs of opulence, but not spartan either. Some good upholstered chairs, a wide bed with drawers beneath, a shiny viola on a black metal stand against the wall. I didn't know he played.

 

"What's happening?" he asks as I remove my helmet. "I haven't heard any alerts."

 

"I went too far." Taking off my gloves, I show him the tacky blood still on my fingers.

 

He stares at me for a long moment before sighing and placing the data pad on his simple glass desk. "Show me."

 

While I shrug off the upper half of my clothes, Hux disappears into a small adjoining bathroom and returns with a metal box. Gesturing for me to sit on the bed, he places it down and starts lining up objects on the lid; a bottle of antiseptic gel, cotton pads, a curved needle, thick synthetic thread. When he finally looks up and sees my back he pauses.

 

"You shouldn't layer bruises like this," he finally says, applying gel to a pad and dabbing gently at my wounds. It stings, and my fingers curl in his sheets. "It isn't healthy."

 

"Worried about me?" I ask with half a smile. Hux lets out an annoyed breath.

 

"Of course. You're a member of my crew. Your wellbeing is my responsibility."

 

Not quite the answer I expected. My smile widens and I glance over my shoulder. "Is that why you gave me a whip?"

 

Cuts cleaned, Hux threads the needle. "We all have our ways of muddling through. Hold still."

 

I've never liked needles. They're a different kind of pain, prickly and cold. Hux is no medtech, but he tries, gentler than he has to be. I'd rather just get it over with.

 

"How many do you have?" I ask to keep my mind off the piercing tug.

 

Drawing the first stitch closed, Hux ties a neat knot. "Coping mechanisms?"

 

"Floggers."

 

"Just the one," Hux replies as he cuts the thread with a small pair of scissors. "Why? Is the first not up to your impeccable standards?"

 

He says it like a joke, glancing up at me as if he expects me to smile. When I don't, he turns back to his work. The needle sinks in again. "You gave it up for me?"

 

"Well, I wasn't using it."

 

Again Hux pulls the stitch together, ties, cuts. I look away. "You're not like me, are you."

 

He pauses. With my head turned, I see him out of the corner of my eye; his long legs dangling over the edge of the bed, his high shiny boots, his belt with the polished buckle. He shifts and keeps stitching. "No. No I am not."

 

I don't reply. I don't know what to say. With the first of the larger gashes closed, Hux moves on to the next. The antiseptic gel is starting to kick in, easing away the sting and leaving only a sensation of pressure. I'm not sure I prefer it.

 

"I would never do anything you didn't want me to," Hux says quietly. For once when I brush his mind, I feel the uneasy tingle of fear.

 

"But you would. If I did."

 

Hux says nothing.

 

My heart starts to patter in my chest. Without the pain in my back to focus me, my mind wanders. What would it be like, if it was him holding the lash? Would it hurt more? Would it be better? Without having to concentrate on moving my arm how deep would I go? I think about coming to the point where I _can't_ , where I would stop, but he keeps going and I don't have any choice but to…

 

I swallow hard. My knees come up to my chest, the heels of my boots digging into the edge of the bed. I've gotten hard from pain before, but never like this. Just thinking about it. Thinking about him.

 

At last he's done. He applies another layer of antiseptic gel over the stitches and tapes a gauze pad over the wounds. His hands drop.

 

"You could," I say, picking at a mole on my arm. "If you wanted to."

 

The texture of his mind changes. I can feel him breathing. I want to reach inside. See what he's thinking.  See the images in his mind, if they match up to mine. Know exactly what he wants when he traces his fingers down a long welt. That part of my back isn't numb and the rasp of his fingertips makes me shudder.

 

"Let that heal," he says as he stands, tugging his uniform straight. "Ask me again when the bruises are gone."

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

I'm under no obligation to obey him. Whatever he may think, I'm not 'part of his crew'. I don't have to do what he says.

 

I do.

 

For the next two weeks, I spend my nights pacing, looking at the black box tucked under the bed every time I turn. Tension claws at my shoulders and my head aches. I want to destroy everything I see, want to kill every idiot fool enough to get in my way, anything to _stop_. My talks with Grandfather become shouting matches.

 

I shouldn't need this. I shouldn't want this. It's a weakness. I'm weak, I'm nothing, a pretender and I can't wait to be on my knees again, Hux's hand in my hair and the lash on my back. Every night I touch myself and every morning I glare at the bruises in the mirror, waiting for them to disappear.

 

"They're gone," I tell Hux the moment he opens the door, shoving the black box into his hands as I push past into his quarters.

 

"Ren—"

 

As the door hisses shut, his back hits it, my gloved hands fisted in the lapels of his coat. His eyes go wide, perfect circles of blue.

 

"You promised," I hiss. Through the mask, it's garbled, barely understandable.

 

For a moment his lips hang open. His mind feels like bubbling water. Then his eyelids droop and his hand grabs me by the scruff of my neck, through the hood. "Take off your clothes."

 

As I tear the fabric off he watches. I don't have to touch his mind to know what he wants. His eyes linger at my throat, my sides, my hips. When I move to take off my pants he stops me, hand warm and firm around my wrist.

 

"Turn around."

 

I show him my back. Parts of it are still yellow. The stitches dissolved a few days ago but the area is still tender and red and when he trails his fingers down the lines they sting. He can't say no. I won't let him say no. I'll do it myself, I don't care what he says, if I don't get out of my head I'm going to lose my mind.

 

"On the bed," he whispers in my ear. "Face down."

 

Feels right and wrong at the same time, stretching out on his wide grey bed. Hux's mind sparks, eyes raking over me. My shoulders. My hips. My ass. His fingers brush along the skin just above the waistband of my pants.

 

"Hux," I say in a low warning tone. His hand pulls away.

 

Setting the box down on the nightstand, Hux flips open the lid and picks up the flogger. My heart beats faster and my shoulders curl. Easier for him to hit. The tips of the leather strands whisper over my back and I shiver.

 

"Are you certain this is what you want?" he asks.

 

Forehead resting on my arms, I take a deep breath. "Yes."

 

"Very well, then," Hux says, lifting his arm and bringing it back down.

 

It's like being struck by lightning. I knew it was coming but I still didn't expect it, the suddenness of it, the intensity, a dozen impacts snapping into my uninjured shoulder. My back arches and my hips come up and I swear, on my elbows and knees with my hands fisting in his sheets.

 

"Fuck!"

 

"Too hard?" he asks.

 

"No," I gasp. Close my eyes. Breathe into the pain. "More."

 

"Lie back down."

 

My shoulder rolls as I sink. Already feels bruised. I bury my hands in my hair, tension aching down my back. Waiting. His arm comes up and for a second I stop breathing. Then it comes down and I'm groaning into the bedspread, arching again.

 

"If you can't stay still," Hux says, a thread of irritation in his voice despite the glittering happy gleam of his mind, "I'm going to have to tie you down."

 

My eyes fly open. " _Fuck_. Yes."

 

He blinks. "Yes?"

 

"Yes." I edge back on the bed, hands above my head, wrists together. "Do it."

 

He almost drops the flogger in his haste to put it down. Kneeling, he opens one of the drawers beneath his bed and pulls out a large metal case. Craning my neck, I look inside.

 

Coiled rope. Cuffs. A leather collar. Rubber rings, a ball gag, clamps, all tucked away in neat cubbies cut from grey foam. I huff something like a laugh.

 

"You really are a collector."

 

As he pulls the blocky metal cuffs from their slot, Hux looks up at me. "I prefer to be prepared."

 

The cuffs are tight around my wrists. Not uncomfortable. Just snug. Part of the central portion slides off, a pair of thick cords connecting it to the main body as it magnetically clips to Hux's headboard. I can bend my arms, but just barely. He's loving this. I would be furious if it didn't feel so good.

 

"Shall I do your legs as well?" he murmurs, trailing his fingers down my spine to the small of my back.

 

I turn my face down, breathing into the fabric. "Yes."

 

He takes his time, wrapping the red rope around my ankles again and again to make sure it won't bite. He must have rings on either side of the footboard. Something about that is funny. Hux must have installed them himself. I imagine him in an undershirt, fumbling with a power tool. Then I think about all the other people he must have tied to this bed.

 

"Hurry up," I growl.

 

"Just a minute." He pulls a rope taut, forcing my legs apart. "I don't want to hurt you."

 

"Are you kidding me?"

 

"I don't want to hurt you _by accident_ ," he clarifies with a sigh. His hand trails up my calf as he returns to the side of the bed. He likes touching me. His pleasure is like bright spots on the backs of my eyes. "Are you ready?"

 

"Just hit me." I grit my teeth. "And don't stop."

 

He picks a different spot this time, slightly farther down my back. Every inch of me wants to curl up into it. I can't. Can't bend my knees, can't do much more than squirm. Sometimes he hits hard, sometimes he just brushes the strands over my aching skin. I can never tell which is coming. It's impossible to brace for, impossible to prepare for, and within a few breathless agonizing minutes I'm shouting into the sheets, struggling to pull free. Hux pauses.

 

"Are you alright?"

 

"I told you not to stop," I snap. I can't breathe fast enough, my heart is racing, I'm so hard it hurts. "Don't ever stop."

 

The last comes out half a moan. His mind lights up. I can lift my hips a little, just enough to relieve the pressure. The urge to push back down again, rut against the mattress, is almost more than I can take. This is different, this is different and I don't know if I like it, don't know if I prefer my own meditative rhythm but if Hux doesn't hit me again _right now_ I'm going to kill him.

 

He brings the lash down on my ass.

 

Even through my pants it's electric. My hips jerk and my fists clench and I hiss. He waits half a heartbeat, just long enough for me to start breathing again, and brings it down on the other cheek. One then the other, again and again, flicking at my thighs in between so there isn't a single moment when something doesn't hurt. One hit strikes between my shoulder blades and takes me by surprise and I can't think. I couldn't even if I wanted to. No focus. Nothing. Just lightning under my skin.

 

Shouldn't build this fast. Shouldn't be this much. Like the difference between masturbation and fucking. I can feel everything he does to me, the breeze as the strands snap down, the impact rippling through my body. I would have stopped by now. Too much, too much to take. No-one could take this.

 

I do.

 

"Fuck," I curse as he strikes just below my new scars, over and over until I can't breathe. "Fuck, fuck me, please, fuck me…"

 

He stops mid-blow. I suck in air until my chest hurts, static dancing in my eyes. I'm covered in sweat. Shaking. I want to cry. Lie here and sob while my back turns from red to black. There's nothing stopping me. I just can't. Not yet. I'm not broken, but I want to be so badly. It would be so much easier.

 

"What did you say?" he asks, his voice high and cracking.

 

Can't speak. Can't find words. He rests one knee on the bed beside me, leaning over, his hand like fire in the small of my back.

 

"You want me to…"

 

His hand drifts lower, to the waistband of my pants. I groan into my own arm.

 

"I need you to say it."

 

"Yes," I moan at last. " _Yes_."

 

Suddenly my pants are around my knees, my bruised ass hot in the cool air. He's straddling my leg, pawing at me with greedy hands, bending down to kiss the lash marks. He's on fire too. He fumbles, coming off me to grab something in the nightstand, dropping it, scrambling to pick it back up.

 

Even without touching him, I can feel his thoughts. _Don't change your mind, don't change your mind, don't change your mind._ Cold oil dribbles down the crack of my ass. Far too much. Somehow I find myself smiling.

 

"Are you sure?" he asks, hovering, waiting, breathless.

 

"Hux," I grumble into my own skin.

 

"Yes?"

 

"I can kill you with my mind."

 

After an uncertain heartbeat, he laughs. It doesn't come naturally to him. He stops almost immediately, like it isn't proper. Like he has to keep up appearances. Slowly his fingers trace down my tailbone, lower, still waiting for me to say no. Every inch of me burns. I want his mind to light up again and when his fingers find the puckered ring of muscle it does.

 

Again he takes his time. I want to tell him to hurry up. I _want_ it to hurt, want him to fuck into me as hard as I know he needs to. But he likes this. He likes feeling me twitch around his fingers, likes when my hips cant and my breath hitches. Likes the easy slide of too much lube.

 

And it feels good. His fingers are narrow but long, and tied up I can't do anything but squirm. His other hand moves over my back, keeping the pain alive.

 

"I can't…" Hux begins as he presses three of his fingers in deep, crooking them in a way that makes my toes curl. "I can't quite believe this is happening. I've thought about it, but I never believed you'd actually…"

 

"I've thought about it too," I murmur back, lifting my hips to give him a better angle.

 

I can feel his surprise like a spark. "You have?"

 

I nod and hum. I've thought about it a lot, since he patched me up. Thought about shoving him against the nearest hard surface and fucking him until he screamed, but thought about this, too. And other things. Lots of other things.

 

He leans forward, breath ghosting over my shoulder blade. "Do you want me inside of you?"

 

He's trying to sound impressive. Again I smile, into my arm so Hux can't see. "Yes."

 

"Say it."

 

My smile turns into a grin. "I want you inside of me."

 

He draws back. "Are you laughing at me?"

 

"No," I lie.

 

He slaps my ass. With his fingers still inside me it sends shockwaves through my entire body and I yank on my restraints, groaning loudly. He does it again. And again. I'm already tender, already sore, and my cock throbs, hips bucking as best I can with no leverage. By the time he stops and leans down again, I'm panting, eyes squeezed shut against the rippling sensation.

 

"I'm going to fuck you now," Hux whispers into my skin.

 

This time I just nod.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

Overload.

 

His cock slams inside me. That's hot and hard and deep and perfect, even before his hips pound against my red ass. Impact. Shockwaves up my bones. Rasp of his uniform against my skin. Buttons digging into my back. One of his hands on the back of my neck, pushing my face into the mattress, the other sinking new bruises into my hip.

 

Cuffs are tight. My wrists ache. Ankles. Can't move, can't even squirm with him on top of me.

 

Buck my hips. He likes that. Sparks in his mind, lips on my shoulder, kissing my scars. His sweat and mine drips together. When I moan until there's no breath left in me he lights up like a nebula, new stars of pleasure bursting to life with every thrust.

 

He groans my name but I don't recognize it. I don't have a name. People have names. I'm nerve endings, blood vessels, welts and bruises. No thoughts, muscle doesn't think. Skin can't be scared.

 

I am nothing. I am no-one. All I want, all I need, is for this to last forever.

 

It almost does.

 

I come first, sobbing into the tear-damp sheets. It's too much to bear. All my muscles screwed up tight, eyes shut so hard static bursts in my vision, voice tearing like paper. I clamp down on him and he curses and every fiber of my body shakes.

 

He fucks me through it. Fucks me until the tension boils away in the heat of it. Fucks me until I think I can't stand it anymore, and then he comes too, hot and stinging inside me.

 

Breathing hard, he reaches up and clicks the release on my cuffs. The metal springs open. Slowly, achingly, I draw my hands down to fist in my hair. My shoulders shake.

 

"I'm proud of you," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the back of my head.

 

I don't know why he says it. Doesn't make sense. Now, with his cum leaking out of me, bruises, tears on my cheeks. But in the happy sunlight contentment of his mind I can feel that it's true.

 

He unties me. Pulls my pants the rest of the way off. Sits next to me on the bed. Rumpled uniform, sweat-soaked hair falling into his face, a flush that spreads all the way down his neck and under the collar of his jacket. He tucked himself back into his pants but hasn't done them up, the white of his underwear showing through. Rests his hand on my shoulder and waits.

 

He has to wait a long time.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

I wake up covered in a thin blanket. Everything hurts. It's wonderful.

 

Hux isn't beside me and for a moment I'm sure he's gone. Too embarrassed to talk to me.

 

But no, he's just sitting at his desk, hair damp from a shower and clothes changed. He taps away on a data pad. Working.

 

I watch him for a while. His mind feels like soft autumn sunshine. Eventually lying on my stomach with my neck craned gets uncomfortable and I roll over, sucking in a breath at the pressure on my bruises. Hux turns in his chair.

 

"You're awake. Good. I was starting to worry."

 

"How long have I been asleep?" I ask. My throat aches.

 

Hux glances at his chronometer. "Almost ten hours."

 

"Ten…" I stare at the clock. He's right. "I haven't slept that long since I was twelve."

 

"Well, you earned it," Hux says blithely, setting his data pad aside.

 

I force myself to sit up. Rub at the bruises around my wrists. Standing up, Hux comes to perch on the side of the bed.

 

"How do you feel?"

 

"Beaten all to hell," I reply. "Better. Good."

 

He reaches out to brush a stray strand of hair back from my face. The gesture is too familiar. Snoke wouldn't approve. I should stop him.

 

I don't.

 

"You did well," he says, fingers tracing the line of my cheek.

 

I don't know what that means. Before I can open my mouth to ask, he leans forward and kisses me.

 

"Why did you do that?" I ask when he pulls back.

 

"Because I wanted to." His hand comes up and musses my hair.

 

Ignoring my scowl and my batting hand, he gets up and goes back to the desk. After a moment I draw my knees to my chest.

 

In the silence, my mind should be whirling. Part of it is.

 

_Proud of you_. _You did well_.

 

Like I accomplished something.

 

Somehow it feels like I did.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

That day, Ren destroys nothing. He frightens no-one. He hovers in the periphery of my vision, leaning against things, acting as if I cannot see the way his gloved hands dig into his strong arms. He has _comments_. I don't have time for them, and I tell him as much, yet there he is, a shadow haunting my footsteps.

 

"Ren," I tell him, blocking my own doorway. "Don't be greedy."

 

The mask bears no expression, but his hands curl into fists at his sides. "I need it."

 

"You'll manage," I say as I slip back into my quarters. "Come back when the bruises are gone."

 

A long moment after the door hisses shut, his footsteps stomp away down the hall.

 

Sitting at my desk, I flit my fingers over my data pad. An image flares to life; a darkened room, a single low chair, a triangular plinth holding a distorted mask. Ren storms in, tears his helmet off, flings it into a corner. Silent through my muted data pad, he screams.

 

He would destroy himself if I let him. Flay the flesh from his back until he was nothing but beautiful scars. There's a certain appeal to that. Like watching a star die.

 

Yet loath as I am to admit it, the Order needs Kylo Ren. Nuisance that he is, he has his uses. And he is part of my crew.

 

It's an excuse. As far as excuses go, it's a good one.

 

I should sleep. I stayed awake far too long last night, watching Ren's shoulders rise and fall with the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing. Usually he twitches, moans, clutching at his bare shoulders as if under attack. In my bed he was silent. Still.

 

On the screen, Ren paces. He doesn't know how to want. Yet under my hand, he can learn. Learn not just to bear his own aching need, but savour it, the way he savours pain. Learn to be patient. What an improvement that will be.

 

I once heard, though I can no longer recall where, that the trick to lasting companionship was to find someone whose broken pieces match your own. I have never tried. My interests are eclectic and I have my reputation to protect.

 

And yet here I am. Watching Ren pace. Planning what I will do to him, next time he comes to my door.

 

A blindfold, I think.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed. If you want to hang out on Tumblr, my username is squintlysays.


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